The Oxford Puzzle
by Bookworm Kate
Summary: 1965 - Twenty Years after the end of the war, Christopher and Samantha Foyle are meeting with their grown up children for a family weekend. Their youngest, Connie Foyle, brings with her an intriguing story of murder from her studies in Oxford and a soft spot for a young detective constable called Morse. Foyle/Sam and Fourth in the "Keep Me" series.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I've been playing with this story for ages and finally feel ready to share it. I've never done a crossover before (though it really is more about _Foyle's War_ with only little bits of _Endeavour_ ). It follows on from the last of my "Keep Me" series ( _Keep Me Closer Still_ ), which some of you have been so kind about. So, for those who wanted more about the Foyle Family, here you go! I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

* * *

 **Part 1**

 **1965**

On a chintz sofa, stretched out elegantly with a magazine, sat a young lady who looked entirely at her leisure. Her long, blond hair came nearly to her waist with a fringe cut severely across her forehead. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she turned a page. Her blue dress with white collar stopped just above the knees of her long legs and looked as if it had been made especially for her. She had kicked off her pumps earlier, and they lay discarded nearby. Slender and full of repressed energy, she had a sensual quality about her in the set of her mouth, which pouted slightly under bright blue eyes.

Craning her neck round to look past the lampshade towards the door of the lounge, she narrowed her eyes impatiently. She was absolutely gasping for a cup of tea, and he was being ages about it. It was heavenly to be back here though, away from the fusty books and paper deadlines that seemed to plague her every step. The cold, autumnal day was being kept at bay by a roaring fire, and it felt cosy and familiar. Here, she could put aside her studies for a day or two and just enjoy her family's company. It sounded as if it was going to be quite a party, and she grinned suddenly, chucking down the magazine. Didn't she have a lot to tell them? She couldn't wait to see their faces!

Connie Foyle, twenty and in her second year of reading History at Oxford, loved the idea of surprising her family. She had done well for herself at school and was part of a nice set at Oxford, but it had been all rather by the book, and therefore slightly dull. She had a keen mind, and this latest development was just the sort of thing to intrigue her. She longed for a bit of excitement in her life, and this had certainly been unexpected. While life at Oxford had its exciting moments: balls, sporting matches, debates and lectures, music nearly every night, and plenty of clubs that stayed open until all hours, Connie found it slightly trivial. The young men that seemed to be constantly throwing themselves at her feet were all the same — many pretentious and rather full of themselves. She couldn't stand being chatted up or asked to dance by her contemporaries; they never wanted to talk about serious things, and if they did, they often were too radical for her taste.

Instead, Connie busied herself with her studies and her friends, organising evening meet ups for their little set or hosting informal parties in her rooms. She lived at the top of staircase C at St Anne's, tucked away at the end of the quad and the porter never bothered them about noise. They played records, smoked cigarettes, and spoke long and hard about changing the world. She had excellent taste in clothes and had saved many an evening from disaster for her friends who went out with older boys from the other colleges. Both gracious about lending things as well as being objectively opinionated, she was a dab hand at sorting her friends' styles. She was popular and well liked by both her peers and her professors, and Connie felt happy and at rights with the world. But a bit more excitement was nothing to sneer at.

Hearing his footsteps at last, she leapt up and opened the door to the lounge for him. Andrew Foyle gave a rather muffled "thank you" from behind his pipe and carried the tea tray in to set it carefully on the low table. He stood upright and smiled at her, eyes crinkling. Nearly fifty and going grey at the temples, he was a lifetime older than his baby sister, but they both adored one another and got on very well. Pulling his pipe from his mouth, he tugged at his thick moustache before sitting down. He wore a heavy, brown cardigan that had deep pockets: perfect for storing his tobacco and stubs of pencils in.

Connie sat down with a thump opposite him. "You've been ages. Where's Mrs Robertson?"

"Sorting out your mother's birthday dinner. I had to make the tea while ducking her rolling pin, so be grateful we've got anything at all."

Connie poured the tea from a Royal Albert Old Country Roses patterned teapot into matching cups. There were some biscuits on a plate, and she snapped one up as soon as she had handed Andrew his teacup. "When are they arriving? And where's Cassi? Do you think she'd mind if I nicked one of her French cigarettes?"

"No, she wouldn't mind, but you know Dad doesn't like you smoking."

Connie rolled her eyes at him and asked again, "When are they arriving?"

"They're driving up, so not long now. Cassi's just putting the finishing touches on their room — flowers and such. She'll be down in a moment, I'm sure."

"Shame the boys can't be here. I've seen the dining room — it looks as if it is going to be a right party!"

"Well, you know what Cassi's like. Nothing by halves."

Connie nodded and looked over at the mantle where a photo of two boys stood next to a wedding portrait. Andrew Foyle and the Honourable Cassandra Willouby-Myers had married in London when Connie was just two; it had been the most talked about wedding of the season, and she had been a flower girl — not that she remembered it at all, but it was nice to think she had been a part of it. She did remember when Hamish, their first son, had been born though. And when Timothy had come along two years later, they had become an inseparable trio. Connie, not surprisingly, became the leader and got them in to more trouble than they could have dreamed of. At seventeen and fifteen, they were both still away at school, and Connie missed them. It didn't feel right to have a family gathering and them not be here at Greystones too.

Turning away from the photos, she watched Andrew filling his pipe. "You aren't giving any more lectures at college this term, are you?" she asked.

He looked up. "Why? Do you mind?"

"No, of course not, silly, it's just the girls on my staircase never stop talking about you and keep asking me to take their books to you to be signed."

"What an awful bore," he said, rolling his eyes.

"Well, it is rather," she retorted, putting down her teacup with a clatter. "I'm awfully proud of you, you know that, but having all the girls at St Anne's suddenly following me about as I try to get to lectures just because I'm Andrew Foyle's baby sister is a bit much."

"Do they really follow you about?"

"Yes. Do you remember that girl from your last lecture in the Trinity term— the one who had practically everything you've ever written with her in her satchel?"

Andrew looked at her blankly, so she added, somewhat unkindly, "You know, the one with spots who came up to you afterwards."

He nodded slowly. "Yes, I think so. What of her?"

"She followed me every morning for a week, asking if I would have you sign her copy of your book of poetry."

Andrew snorted and shrugged. "Sorry, Connie girl — awfully bad luck."

She threw a small pillow at him. "It's maddening. Anyway, we'll sneak you in next time you're up and we can have tea somewhere quiet without the masses gawping."

Andrew grinned. "Deal."

Connie drank her tea slowly, but tapped a fingernail against the cup. She couldn't sit still.

"What's up?" Andrew asked.

"Hmm? Oh, well…" she paused, setting down her cup again. "I wanted to wait until you were all here to tell you, but I don't think I can keep it in any longer."

Andrew's eyebrows shot up and he leaned forward. She looked strangely agitated, and a worried crease began to form on his forehead.

She pursed her lips. "Have you, er… seen the paper today?"

"Not properly."

"Right." She hesitated, looking down at her hands.

"Come on, out with it."

"Well…" she took a breath before saying in a rush, "my friend and I found our German History professor dead as we went in for our tutorial yesterday. The police questioned us and everything." She was trying not to grin and failed. "I know it's awful of me," she blurted out, "but it is rather exciting."

"Connie!" Andrew said, shocked. "What a thing to say — poor chap's dead and you're gloating about it like a schoolgirl."

"I'm not. I hardly knew him — we've only met a few times this term for tutorials. Of course I'm sorry he's dead; it's awful, but Andrew —" she broke off and leaned forward, elbows on her knees, "I think he was murdered."

Eyes wide, Andrew said nothing. He lit his pipe methodically, thinking hard before looking up at his sister properly. "Now look here, my girl," he began, pointing with his pipe, "this is a matter for the police and you're not to go sticking your nose in."

"Too late for that," she muttered, beginning to look sulky.

"What do you mean?" Andrew frowned.

"Well, they questioned us, of course, since we found the body, and again this morning…" she was interrupted by the sound of a car pulling up the gravel driveway. They both looked out the window and recognised the Rover. Connie jumped up and Andrew followed, protesting, "I say, Connie, wait half a minute — what do you mean—"

But she was gone, quickly pulling on her shoes, hopping on one foot and then the other across the hall, and racing out the front door to be swept up in her father's arms and kissed heartily on either cheek by her mother.

Scratching the side of his head, Andrew followed more slowly. His wife, Cassandra, arrived at the bottom of the stairs and together they went out into the drive to welcome the newcomers. Cassandra looked perfectly put together, with a silver bracelet and matching earrings dangling elegantly, complementing her sleeveless red frock. She pulled a wrap around her shoulders as they stepped outside. Tall as Andrew, with defined and noble features under dark brown hair, Cassandra might have been a model. As it was, she was a happy wife and mother of two, endlessly busy with her organisations and completely devoted to her husband.

Two Springer Spaniels barked and raced around the side of the house, making the already boisterous reception an even larger spectacle. Andrew shook Christopher Foyle's hand, and kissed his father's wife, Samantha, on the cheek. Foyle Senior was looking trim and bright in a three piece suit and broad brimmed trilby. He moved stiffly from the drive and took a moment to stretch his back before winking at his son.

"Made good time; Sam was driving."

His wife swatted his arm affectionately. "Well, if you will buy a powerful car, what do you expect?" They stood beside a beautiful green Rover, series II saloon car — heavy, yet fast. It had power steering, and Sam loved it and drove it with an unabashed relish.

"Come in, come in," Cassandra said brightly after kissing them both.

Sam wore a long coat trimmed with fur, with her hair swept up under a matching hat. She plucked off her gloves and tucked her arm into her daughter's, pleased to be with her family again.

"Let me help with the bags, Dad," Andrew said.

The ladies went inside, all talking nineteen to the dozen. As soon as they had disappeared through the door, Andrew turned to his father and said quickly, "So, your daughter has just told me that she and her school chum found their professor dead yesterday morning, and apparently have been questioned by the police. She was positively gloating about it!"

Christopher Foyle raised his eyebrows and drew in a corner of his mouth in thought. "Have the police said anything?"

"No, she hasn't told me much — you arrived and she bolted out the door. She said it was exciting…" he shook his head and reached for a case inside the boot.

Foyle gave a small grunt. "Had to get it from somewhere. Just like her mother…"

Andrew looked up and they caught each other's eye, suddenly breaking into identical grins.

"Well, when you put it like that, I'm not so worried. I half thought she was being morbid…but if it's just curiosity…"

"I have no doubt we'll have the full story out of her."

"She was practically bursting to tell someone…"

The two men walked into the house and Andrew shut the door behind him. They heard the patter of the dogs coming into the hall, and one gave a half-hearted woof. In a stern voice, Andrew told them to make themselves scarce, and led the way upstairs.

"Good trip, Dad?"

"Yes. Glad Sam was driving. The roads these days…" he shook his head.

Something in his voice made Andrew pause, and it occurred to him that his father was perhaps becoming old. Strange to think, as Christopher Foyle certainly didn't seem it. His father's hair had gone white and stuck up in tufty curls, and he certainly had more lines on his face, but to Andrew, he seemed his usual self: reticent, quick minded, kind, and steadfast.

They dumped the bags in the guest room, and Andrew clapped him on the shoulder. "Good to have you here, Dad. It's been a while since you've been to Greystones."

"House is looking good. How are my grandsons?"

"Keeping out of trouble for the most part."

Foyle chuckled. "Now that Connie isn't landing them in it, you mean…"

"Never knew a girl like her for mischief — you expect it from boys…"

The two men smiled warmly at each other for a moment and Foyle said softly, "Good to see you, my son."

The cacophony of women's chatter hit them as they came down the stairs, and Andrew paused in the wide, stone floored hall.

"Er, a drink in the study perhaps?"

"I'll just pop my head in to say. Don't want Cassandra thinking we're avoiding them."

Andrew rolled his eyes. "But that's exactly what we're doing."

Foyle put his head around the door. "The boy and I are just going into the study."

He smiled to see the ladies together, faces all bright and eager.

"Dinner at seven, Christopher," Cassandra called out to him, waving a hand.

Foyle nodded and ducked back out, following Andrew down the hall into a dark, wood panelled room lined with bookcases. Andrew went to a small side table and began to pour them both a drink. "Still have some that single malt from Easter that you brought up."

"How's the writing?"

"Bit slow. Doing more lectures at the moment, much to my sister's annoyance."

"Oh?"

"Apparently being my baby sister garners unwanted attention."

Foyle's lips turned down in an amused smile. "Thanks for keeping an eye on her."

Andrew handed him a tumbler. "Of course. Not that it's done much good, seeing she's landed herself in the middle of a murder inquiry."

He looked up suddenly and went to his desk. "She mentioned the paper — maybe it's in here?" He set his drink down on the desktop and pulled a pair of reading spectacles from a cavernous pocket before shuffling through that morning's newspaper, searching carefully.

Sipping his drink slowly, Foyle paced by the window, chewing his cheek in thought.

"Here!" Andrew snapped the paper, folding it to the page he was reading from. Foyle pulled his own spectacles from his inside jacket pocket and came to stand beside his son. The two men leaned over the desk together, reading the small article. It didn't say much:

 _Professor Heinrich von Buren was found dead yesterday in his rooms at St Anne's College, Oxford, CID says, of apparent suicide. He was chair of the German studies as well as the History department, and had been a lecturer in Oxford for the last fifteen years. He has no surviving family._

"Um, how is Connie involved in this precisely?"

"She and her friend walked in to find him dead; she thinks it is murder for some reason."

Foyle nodded and rubbed his forehead.

"Anyway." Andrew shrugged, tossing the paper to one side. "How are you and Sam?"

"Good. Sam's busy with her different charitable funds as usual. I don't know what the vicar would do without her organising everything."

"Speaking of — is her father any better?"

"Not really. We were there last month, and he insists on continuing on as normal, even though the doctor told him to rest. Aubrey is with him at the moment to make sure he does as he's told and doesn't have another episode."

Andrew raised his tumbler. "God bless Uncle Aubrey."

Foyle gave a small smile. "I don't envy him the job — Iain and I get along, but he's a horrible patient. Sam was fed up by the time we left."

The telephone on the wide desk rang shrilly, making them jump.

Andrew sighed. "Better answer it; the girls won't hear it and Mrs Robertson will have my guts for garters if she's distracted from her cooking any more today."

He picked up the receiver, and Foyle went to stand by the window again, leaning his weight on one leg and admiring the view over a small paddock.

"I can hardly hear you, say again?" Andrew bellowed down the line, stuffing one finger in his ear. He nodded, "Righto, see you when we see you."

He placed the receiver back down and turned to Foyle. "That was Jack. Sounded like he was being half drowned — London must be having a downpour. Anyway, he's been caught up, but he'll be here eventually."

Foyle smiled and ducked his head. "We'll be all together then."

Andrew moved to stand by his father at the window and put a hand on his shoulder. "Indeed."

Dinner was a riotous affair, with everyone in high spirits. They had come down already changed for dinner, as any party of Cassandra's warranted, the men in black tie and the women in flowing dresses, necks and wrists decorated with pieces of jewellery. They had a few cocktails first, concocted by Cassandra, and watched the rain move in over the neighbouring fields. The table was set with candles and beautiful flowers, and the best china and silver laid out with precision. Mrs Robertson had out-done herself and cooked up a feast of wonderful proportions. Smoked salmon to start, cold ham, sliced chicken, roast potatoes and vegetables, a wine gravy, cheese, and for afters, apple crumble with thick clotted cream. It was simple, hearty food, and just what Sam wanted for her birthday meal. Her excuse for nothing fancy was that she was only turning forty-eight, and it didn't warrant extravagance. They sang and toasted her good health with their glasses of wine, and Sam beamed around at them, glad to have everyone together.

Jack arrived during the serving of the crumble, dripping wet and looking like he'd brought half of London's greyness with him. He'd also brought an enormous bouquet of fresh flowers for Sam. Once he had divested himself of his wet coat, she kissed him on the cheek and thanked him. He apologised for being late and for being on his own. His wife, Maureen, had stayed behind in London to look after her mother, and he ate with the speed of a man who hadn't had a proper cooked meal in days.

James 'Jack' Devereaux, Christopher Foyle's eldest son, had come to the family quite late in life through a series of misfortunes, but they had accepted him with open arms and without question, for which both Christopher and Jack were grateful. He was nearly bald, and the hair he did have was now completely grey and cropped short. He was a thin, quiet man who worked as an archivist. For all his reticence, he was Hamish and Timothy's favourite uncle, and Connie had a soft spot for him. With Andrew she could be bold and brash and teasing, but with Jack she was always kind. She had not learnt of his painful past until recently, but even as a small child she had sensed something was different and treated him accordingly. He doted on her and was always quick to smile in her presence.

As they finished their dessert, Cassandra produced finely wrapped boxes and colourful cards. They watched Sam unwrap her gifts which ranged from a lovely brooch, chocolate, a new book, a pair of gloves to match a new outfit Cassandra had helped her buy, and a writing pen. Sam felt utterly spoilt and went around to kiss them all. There was also a hand drawn card from Timothy, who was very good at sketching, signed by both boys in adolescent scrawl.

When they had moved on to coffee and cognac, Andrew heaved a great sigh and said firmly to Connie, "Right. Now as we're all here, let's hear this news of yours."

"I've told Mum and Cassi, but yes, I suppose I should really start at the beginning."

"What's this?" Jack asked, confused.

"She found her professor dead yesterday—"

"What?" Jack sat up and looked down the table in some alarm.

"Am I telling the story?" Connie asked Andrew with some impatience.

He held up his hand and settled back, swirling his cognac glass.

Shaking back her long hair and leaning forwards on her elbows, Connie began.

"Beth and I had a tutorial on German history yesterday at ten o'clock. She lives one staircase over and we always walk together. We arrived at Professor von Buren's rooms, knocked and went in as normal. The door looked fine, hadn't been forced as far as I could tel,l and it was unlocked, naturally. He was sat behind his desk, slumped forwards onto the top, facing the door. There was a load of blood behind his head on the desk top and a gun was in his hand."

The entire table looked at her, listening carefully and she warmed up to her story. "Well, Beth got into a right flap and began blubbing, which was of no use to anyone of course, so I told her to run to fetch the porter. I didn't much like being left alone with him, so I just had a quick look and went back out onto the stairs. I could see he had abrasions on his hands — on his knuckles, you understand? Also, his glasses were askew and the desk was a bit of mess. His rooms had never been untidy when we'd come there before. He was meticulous, everything had its place. Anyway, the police showed up and I had to talk some sense into Beth. She was still blubbing, the silly girl — she'd never even liked him, so I don't see why she felt the need to cry about it."

Christopher Foyle bit his lip, stifling a smile. His daughter was tough and could at times be impatient with her own sex, but with a family full of brothers and nephews, he hardly expected less. He also felt a moment of pride at hearing her clear, concise retelling of what she had seen. She seemed to have missed nothing.

"The police questioned us, but we couldn't tell them much of course." To the table's surprise, Connie suddenly paused, blushing. "There was a young detective who looked as if he had some brains. Asked the right questions, that sort of thing…"

Playing with her coffee cup self-consciously, Connie added lamely, "And's that it really…"

Andrew gave her a look. "You told me you thought it was murder, but the paper said the CID has ruled on suicide."

Cassandra gave a shudder and drained her cup. "Why must dinner conversation with the Foyle's always come back to such ghastly things? Might we have one evening without the Police and murder suspects?"

Connie frowned and eyed her brother carefully. "Then why did he have abrasions on his hands?"

Cassandra threw up her hands, recognising a sibling argument coming on. "I'll go give Mrs Robertson a hand."

The men of the table stood politely as she rose, and Sam said half-heartedly, "Do you need help?"

"Certainly not — it's your birthday, and you always loved an intrigue, I seem to remember."

Sam gave her a quick grin.

When she had gone, Jack spoke down the table, "So, you think he was attacked and it was made to look like suicide?"

"Yes. That's what I told Detective Constable Morse, too."

Sam's ears pricked, a mother's intuition hearing the change in her daughter's voice. "And who," she began, smiling sweetly, "is Detective Constable Morse?"

Connie was now a bright shade of becoming pink and Foyle hid another smile behind his cognac glass.

"Er, well…"

 _TBC..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

* * *

Inside the White Horse it was crowed and very loud. Sitting there with a few others from her set, Connie still felt preoccupied by that morning's discovery. She was dressed in a black A-line skirt with a tight fitting green jumper and hair pulled back to reveal long earrings. Her fair hair seemed to glint red as she moved in the light, and she had already caught the eyes of two undergraduates in the corner.

She and her friends often came here on Thursday nights, opting for the more glamorous clubs at the weekend. At the end of the week she just wanted a drink and a chat, but tonight she felt frustrated. The first exciting thing to happen in ages — the possible murder of a professor — and _no one_ wanted to talk about it. Beth looked like she would burst into tears at the mere mention, so Connie stared off into space and thought, not really listening to the conversation of those around her.

A group near them was leaving and, as the crowd began to thin, Connie saw a man she recognised sitting at the bar. Sandy haired, with a long face set now in serious thought, he was tall and thin, and she remembered from the morning how his raincoat had seemed to swallow him. His eyes had been kind and clever, darting and all seeing, and she suspected he was very good at his job. He had asked decent questions and hadn't been at all patronising when she explained what she had seen in Professor Von Buren's office. In fact, he had seemed to agree with her. Standing suddenly and tossing back the last dregs of her drink, she said to her friends, "I'll be back in a 'mo."

She watched him carefully as she came up the bar. He intrigued her greatly, and she felt a flutter of nerves suddenly pass through her middle.

"Hello again, Detective Constable Morse," Connie said, placing her empty glass on the bar and signalling for another.

He turned in surprise from the newspaper and glass of ale in front of him and stared at her for a moment as if trying to place her.

"Miss Foyle, wasn't it? From St. Anne's?"

She smiled and felt pleased that he remembered her. "Yes. Hello."

"Hello," he replied, looking self-conscious.

"Any new leads on the case?"

He arched an eyebrow. "Couldn't say."

"Only I think we both know it wasn't suicide."

"And why would you think that, Miss Foyle?"

"As I told you this morning; he had abrasions on his knuckles and his office was a mess … as if someone had been looking for something."

"Might he not have done that himself?"

She gave him a slightly withering look and Morse shrugged. "It's been ruled as suicide."

"But you believe otherwise." She said it as a statement rather than a question, and Morse looked at her carefully.

"I shouldn't really be discussing—"

"I know, I know, my father is a former DCS — I know the rules." She heaved a sigh and reached for her purse to pay for her drink.

"Allow me."

She looked up quickly and felt a moment's suspicion. Men who bought her drinks were usually after something, and she preferred to cut them down beforehand. The honest look in his face, however, made her bite her tongue. She nodded and gave him a faint smile.

He ordered another ale for himself as well and leaned back. "Foyle — like the author?"

Connie rolled her eyes. "Yes."

Morse smiled. "Sorry. You must hear that a lot."

"It's all right. I'm used to it. He's my brother."

"And your father was a policeman?"

She nodded. "A very good policeman. He fairly ran the entire south coast during the war." She smiled proudly and took a sip of her new gin and tonic.

"You are reading History, you said?"

"Yes."

"Like it?"

"I suppose. Not always very exciting."

"Important though, wouldn't you say?"

"I would."

They exchanged smiles before Morse looked away.

"What did you study?"

He turned back to her, eyes betraying his surprise. "How do you know I studied anything other than policing?"

Connie rolled her eyes again. "Far too clever. Remember, I've met a lot of policemen in my life. You're not like the others. You seem unlikely for a copper."

"Yeah…" Morse murmured and took a deep pull from his glass.

"I meant it as a compliment, but perhaps it didn't sound like one," Connie said, sounding apologetic.

"No, it's fine." He smiled slightly. "I just hear _that_ a lot."

Biting her lip, Connie nodded.

He sighed. "It's rather where I ended up. I studied here at Lonsdale, then went into the Royal Corps of Signals. I was a cipher clerk."

"Sounds interesting."

"Perhaps. Wasn't sure. Though to be honest I wasn't so sure I wanted to be a policeman either."

"I haven't a clue what I want to do either. Something meaningful though…"

He gave her a sidelong glance and smiled.

"Where are you from? You mentioned the South Coast?"

"Hastings." She smiled broadly and he urged her to tell him more.

"Well, it's hard to explain, but I woke everyday to the sound of gulls and the smell of the sea. There is such freedom in that. It's a small town, so I feel like I know most people. But perhaps most people know _me_ — through my parents, you know. Mum is heavily involved with the church and the schools, and with my dad having been in the police…"

He nodded. "Sounds like a lovely place. Do you miss it?"

"I do. But I also spent a lot of time near Oxford at my brother's house — the writer one. He lives outside of Banbury. His two boys are about my age, and even though they are my nephews, they feel like brothers."

"A nice big family. I have a sister, but I don't see her much."

Connie nodded and took a sip of her drink before asking, "What do you do for fun here?"

Morse flashed a grin. "Why do you ask?"

"Most men I meet bang on about football or cars …"

"Meet a lot of men, do you?"

Connie blushed and Morse quickly cleared his throat. "Um, no, well… I like music. Opera and classical pieces… and I sing in a choir."

"I quite like Puccini."

"Yes, I do. And Wagner."

"There is a performance of _Madama Butterfly_ next week, did you know?"

"No, I hadn't heard."

"I've got tickets. Perhaps we can go… _If_ you like." Connie blushed again, cursing herself for feeling so self-conscious. What on earth had made her say _that_? She wasn't sure why she felt so attracted to him, but this young man was far more interesting than any others she had ever met. He was intelligent and discerning, and there was a quietness about him which she was drawn to.

"Perhaps." He gave her a half smile and looked away.

Her heart sank, and she thought she had possibly been too forward.

However, after a moment, Morse said softly, "Who do you think would murder Professor Von Buren, Miss Foyle?"

"Well _I_ don't know, do I? I just know it doesn't add up."

"Don't know anyone who might have held a grudge against him? Or had an argument with him about something?"

"Didn't know much about him, really," Connie said. She played with her glass absently and then continued. "I'd only met him a few times — at tutorials you see — he seemed nice enough."

"Tutorials interesting?"

"I suppose. I would have been more interested to hear about Germany's recent history rather than hundreds of years ago. He came over after the war…I wish I could have asked him about what it was like over there. We hear plenty about what went on here, of course, but I can't help imagining it was rotten for them too. He gave a lecture about two weeks ago: 'Germany between the wars'. It was a bit dry though."

"Was there any negative feeling in college about his being German?"

"Not that I ever noticed. That was all ages ago… surely you don't think that would be cause for someone to murder him?"

"Not really, but we can't rule it out."

Connie glowed at hearing him say 'we' — she realised he probably meant the police, but for a moment she felt like she was helping him and contributing something to the case.

He tugged at his tie and ran a hand through his hair. "What about his colleagues — do you have any of them for lectures?"

"A few. They're all right. None stand out as murderers if that's what you mean."

He looked at her blankly and she touched his arm. "I'm joking. He seemed to get on with everyone well enough. Always talking with the others at meal times, plenty of students stopping to ask him about essays…he was Chair of the department, I think."

Morse nodded. "Yes, we were told that."

He sighed and she smiled at him. "Don't give up quite yet, will you?"

"No. I won't." Morse smiled back.

He lifted his coat, having finished his drink, and made ready to go. Connie noticed his paper folded open on the crossword.

"Are you any good at these?"

"Yes."

She laughed and pulled the paper across to look. "It's only half done."

"Well, I was interrupted."

Connie suddenly frowned, thinking he meant her. She felt suddenly insulted, as if he had been indulging her. "Sorry, I'll leave you to it then. Thanks for the drink."

He looked up, pulling the collar of his coat straight. "Hmm?"

"And by the way, eighteen down, 'Steelhead', five letters — it's _trout_." She slipped from the bar stool and walked back to her friends, leaving Morse looking slightly lost, as if he had missed something. He picked up his paper, took one last look at her and walked out, staring at the crossword.

"So it is…" he muttered, shaking his head.

* * *

The bells were ringing brightly, seemingly in tune with the shining sun and crisp feeling in the air. Connie walked slowly in thought around the quad as the sun warmed her shoulders through her dark blue dress. She held her books under one arm, waiting for her last lecture before she would take the bus to Banbury that afternoon to join her family for the weekend. The conversation with DC Morse the previous evening played over and over in her mind. She felt frustrated but couldn't quite understand why. She certainly shouldn't have been so short with him. It had left her feeling quite silly. _And_ she was no closer to thinking of who might have killed the professor.

A voice from behind startled her and a few of the books she held fell to the ground. Spinning around she saw the object of her thoughts before her.

Morse looked apologetic, and he was already leaning down to gather up the books and papers.

"Sorry to have startled you," he mumbled, reaching for a book.

Connie crouched down, red in the face, gathering her things. "Never mind."

"I came to…I wondered if I might speak to you a moment," Morse said unnecessarily. "About your professor."

Connie stood again, books held fast under her arm. "Yes?"

Morse thrust his hands into his pockets as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with them. He indicated they could keep walking, so Connie fell into step beside him.

"What do you want to know?"

"Well, did he ever mention his family?"

"Gosh, no. We only had an hour for tutorials - hardly time enough for that, let alone small talk."

"Ever see him with anyone else from outside the college?"

"No."

Morse hummed his acknowledgement.

"Still think it's suicide?" Connie gave him a side-long glance.

"Officially, yes. Just trying to get a picture of his life, that's all. We are speaking to his colleagues as well, of course."

"Of course." She smiled at him, wanting to say she was sorry for the previous evening: for being short with him, for asking him to _Madama Butterfly_ , but she hardly knew how to begin.

Instead, she said, "I'm sorry I can't be of more help."

Morse smiled at her before looking down at his feet again as they walked slowly.

"I don't mind a puzzle…"

"It does seem silly for him to kill himself in his rooms. Why not somewhere out of the way?"

Morse nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps he wanted to be found…"

"Or maybe he was involved in a fight!"

"But where's the other person with bruised knuckles, then?"

"It wouldn't necessarily have to be a college person," Connie said quickly. "Perhaps someone slipped past the porters."

"Narrows it down…"

"Actually, I was thinking about the lecture Professor Von Buren gave two weeks ago — you know, the one abut Germany between the wars…?"

"Yes."

"Well, it was open to the public, so anyone who was interested could come along. There were plenty of people there, from in and outside the college, and some stopped to chat to him after the lecture. It only just occurred to me, but there was a chap speaking to him quite animatedly at one point. They might have known one another. He was young looking — blond haired, almost white, in fact, and I've seen him about. I don't think he's a student…looks more a working type, but certainly familiar in some way."

Morse nodded. "Any way to track him down, do you think? Signed in the registry as a guest? Or, if he's been here before… the porter might remember him?"

"Possibly…"

Morse smiled and nodded again. They caught each other's eyes and Connie felt a surge of warmth in her middle.

"Good luck!" she said, trying not to grin.

"I fancy I'll need it."

They had been right round the quad and Morse paused. "In the White Horse again tonight, do you think?"

Connie blushed slightly, nerves jumping.

"Actually, I'm with my family this weekend — it's my mother's birthday, you see — but I would like to know how you're getting on with the case. Maybe I will think of something, too."

Her enthusiasm shone through none too discreetly, causing Morse to smile further.

"Down to Hastings?"

"No, no — here. To my brother's."

"The writer."

"Yes."

"I'll let you know if we have any more questions."

"Do."

"Goodbye, Miss Foyle."

She blinked hard, a deep longing for him not to go just yet writhing inside her. "Good luck, Constable Morse."

He nodded and turned away to walk back to the Porter's Lodge.

Just outside the Lodge, Connie saw Morse find Detective Inspector Thursday and heard them speak to one another.

"Alright then? How'd you get on?" Thursday said, sucking deeply on his pipe.

"Nothing, sir."

"No, me either. Rather an enigma, our German."

"Yes, sir…"

Connie watched the two men wistfully before giving herself a shake and striding quickly towards her lesson.

 _TBC..._


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3**

* * *

"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

Samantha Foyle caught her husband's eye in the mirror of the dressing table and frowned. "Should we be worried, Christopher?"

He grinned at her and moved to stand behind her where she sat removing her jewellery and hair pins. His fingers rested lightly on her neck.

Sam shook her head. "Mixing herself up in a murder enquiry!"

"Sounds as if she could hardly help it," Foyle said sensibly.

Sam smiled. "True. Just slightly concerned… Dead bodies and all that…"

"It didn't do _you_ any harm…"

She swatted at him playfully.

Foyle leant down and rested his head next to hers, looking at her in the mirror. "She's a smart young lady. I have no doubt that whether we approve or not, she will find her own way through the excitement."

"What do you think? Is it murder?" A renewed gleam of interest showed in Sam's eyes.

Foyle stood upright and chuckled. "Without having seen the crime scene or seen a body?"

"Yes." Sam turned in her seat. She watched him remove his cuff links, and could see he was thinking. After so many years together she recognised his movements and found comfort in their familiarity. He was still good looking, and his cleverness and kindness had never wavered. Watching him now as he chewed his lip in thought, it stirred a longing that she suspected would never pass.

"Does seem a bit suspicious, I'll grant you."

Sam was reminded of the times they would speak about cases together in their early days in Hastings. She the young driver, eager and full of duty; he the Detective, battling more than just the home-front war. Theirs had been an unlikely partnership, but a partnership it was. He had spoken to her about cases in such a way, cautious and slightly reserved, back then, too. It was a habit he could not break.

"The way Connie tells it," Sam said, "It sounds like the poor man was surprised and attacked."

"The knuckles could have been bruised from the previous day…or an argument in his office for that matter. He has a bust up with someone, say, and a few hours later he shoots himself."

"Post-mortem would be useful in giving a better picture." Sam acknowledged, turning to continue her nightly routine in front of the mirror.

Foyle hummed his agreement.

"But why wasn't the shot heard?"

"Late at night? Muffled by walls? Located out of the way?"

"Hmm, seems strange," Sam persisted.

"No idea. The suicide might have been more planned than it seems."

"But if it's murder…"

"Still…"

"But who would have it in for him enough to kill him in his _office_."

"Precisely," he said with an air of finality.

Foyle tugged his shirt from his trousers and began to unbutton it.

Sam stood and went to him. "Awfully proud of daughter, you know, Christopher — she reminds me so much of you…"

He smiled his crooked half smile, eyes crinkling. "Well… she reminds me of _you_."

"Blessed aren't we, darling?"

She could see that he knew she meant more than just Connie. His two sons and their families were a part of that luck. It had been a very jolly evening despite Connie's bombshell, and a feeling of contentment settled over them both.

"Very."

Foyle kissed her sweetly, hands coming around her hips to pull her against him. His left hand snuck up her back and found the zip of her dress. He pulled it down neatly, and his right hand slipped inside, caressing her warm skin.

"Happy birthday, my darling."

His voice was soft as his touch, which left Sam tingling.

She sighed, wanting him as much now as she did when they had first embarked on life together. "Thank you for a lovely day…"

"And you," Foyle whispered softly.

She kissed him and grinned, before sliding a cheeky tongue along his lips.

He caressed her and helped her out of her clothes, before divesting himself of his own. He hugged her tightly against him, enjoying the feel of her skin against his. She smiled with pleasure at the warmth of him against her.

"Never a dull life, is it, my Sam?" He murmured.

"Never," she agreed, stroking the grey curls at his neck. Dull was the last word she would use to describe their life. It had its moments of regularity and routine, of course, like any thing, but it had never become stagnant. She had changed, as had he, with life offering more and more at each turn. They had struggled through a war together; through heartaches and problems. But they had each other on the other side of it all, and it engendered profound gratefulness in addition to the love they shared. Life together was, quite frankly, an adventure. Sam's heart swelled and she drew Foyle closer. "Love you. And our wonderful, beautiful family…"

"Gorgeous darling…" Foyle moved towards the bed, drawing her with him.

Then, the need for talking was over. Their movements with one another were nothing new, yet they were still exciting. It was lovemaking of the tenderest nature, and they both delighted in the familiarity of the other.

* * *

Foyle woke early, as he was wont to do, and felt the warmth of Sam beside him. He sighed, having dreamt and slept deeply. His body ached in a pleasurable way, and he was tempted to snuggle closer to Sam and wake her. But he was tired, as she would also be, after a long drive and a short night. _Best let her sleep,_ he thought.

His mind went back to their conversation the previous evening, and he chewed his lip, suddenly deep in thought. _A murder in an Oxford college… That wasn't likely to sit well. And should they be worried for Connie's safety? Perhaps it was, in fact, just suicide…_

Yet, he trusted Connie's instincts, even if she had never been faced with such a thing before. Besides, his daughter was right: it didn't add up. If it was _his_ case, he would be looking into the man's family and work life. Perhaps he owed money? Or had gone to bed with someone's wife? He thought about what he would do if someone… Foyle's arm went around Sam's waist protectively, and he settled himself behind her, her lovely, round bottom tucked against him.

He remembered the newspaper from yesterday: 'Chair of the German studies and History department'… Could it be a problem within the college? A set-to with another scholar?

And, as Sam had said: a post-mortem would be helpful… _Perhaps the man was ill?_

Foyle sighed, feeling he had more questions than ideas. Besides, it was not his case or his business anyway. It was hard to shake the thoughts, however, since his daughter was somehow involved. In a way, he wanted to be one step ahead so as to prevent her experiencing any unpleasantness. A small voice in the back of his mind whispered, "Ah yes, but you can't always be there to protect her…"

He cleared his throat, annoyed at himself, and woke Sam in the process. She groaned first, but then hummed her delight at feeling him so close.

"Is it morning?" Sam asked groggily.

"Yes. Good morning, darling."

Sam smiled and hummed again, stretching slightly. She pushed her bottom against him invitingly, and his lips brushed her ear and neck, making her arch towards him again. All feelings of tiredness vanished, and his hands slipped down to caress her warmth.

"Lovely wife…"

"Lovely yourself…" She turned her head and kissed him deeply.

"You've been thinking," she murmured, knowing him too well.

"Yes."

"Any answers?" She yawned.

"Nup…" He licked and kissed her neck, causing her to shiver in delight.

"Never mi—mind," she gasped as his tongue tickled her.

He moved closer, and she squirmed in delight under his touch.

"Have we time?" She asked, slightly breathless.

"Plenty. It's still dawn."

"Thank goodness," Sam whispered with feeling before yawning again.

Foyle smiled; he, too, was glad for not having to rush.

 _TBC..._


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4**

* * *

The throaty purr of a 2 litre petrol engine became louder as it neared the back of the house where Connie was pulling on rubber boots and an old, oversized jacket of Andrew's. The two spaniels woofed in acknowledgement, and the larger of the two raced round Connie's legs, nearly toppling her over in excitement.

"Just wait half a tick, silly," she said affectionately, and the dog woofed again in response.

Outside the back door, Andrew had pulled up in his old Series I Land Rover. It was a light green colour with a canvas soft top and thick wheels. It smelled wonderfully of oil and mud, and on rainy days: wet dog. Connie had learnt to drive in it, and she had a particular fondness for it.

"Everyone ready?" Andrew called as he shut off the motor.

"Think so. Mum is just finishing the sandwiches."

"Jolly good." The door creaked loudly as he stepped out. He was in much the same garb as his younger sister, and he had a flat cap cocked cheekily to one side.

One of the dogs woofed at him, lolling its tongue, and he stooped to scratch its head. The day was slightly cloudy, with a certain brightness to the air, and rather nippy when the sun did disappear. There was a distinct smell of leaves and grass, as well as the dogs and oil, and it all reminded Connie distinctly of her of childhood.

Foyle and Jack came out the back door hefting a large wicker hamper. The smell of foodstuffs excited the dogs, and they were at Foyle's feet at once, threatening to topple over him, Jack, and their prize. Andrew intervened, and between them, they stored the hamper safely away in the back of the Land Rover.

Jack had borrowed some of Andrew's old things as well, and he looked so different to his usual suited self in the faded corduroys, rubber boots, and khaki jacket. Andrew clapped him on the shoulder and smiled, before turning to help Foyle gather his fishing things. Foyle, too, had donned rubber boots, and had a thick green scarf wrapped around his neck. Sam always reminded him to wear it when the cold weather came, as he still suffered from the remnants of a chest infection.

Sam and Cassandra also came out of the back door, pulling on gloves and tying thin scarves over their hair.

"All set then?"

They piled into the Land Rover, with Andrew at the wheel, Connie in the middle and Foyle next to her. In the back with the hamper and dogs, Cassandra, Jack, and Sam sat on the benches that lined the sides of the car. It could easily hold seven people, but with two dogs and a large food hamper and rugs, it was rather a tight squeeze. Connie turned and reached to slide the partition window to one side and called through, "all right back there?"

They all said "yes" at the same time and then smiled at one another across the panting dogs.

The family was taking opportunity of the dry weather to have a proper outing. Andrew drove them down an old farm road which led to a wide paddock that had a small stream running through it. He knew the farmer quite well, and they were always welcome to enjoy the place, as it was only mainly used by horses or cattle now. During the war it had all been tilled to within an inch of its life, though it wasn't truly suitable for the crops they had been prescribed to grow. The farmer was old now and was more than glad to let it be used for livestock.

Only the last bit was very bumpy, and Sam soothed the dogs as they woofed and tried to scramble about. Andrew pulled up near a small grove of trees, and they all clambered out. Here, they were sheltered from the wind, and it was pleasant when the sun came from behind the clouds. Connie was meant to help set out the rugs and hamper, but she had fallen in beside Foyle to carry his fishing rod. Sam gave them a wistful look, both missing her own role as Foyle's fishing helper, and yet loving that Connie always wanted to go with him. Andrew had never had the patience for it all, but Connie was nearly as adept as Foyle when it came to fishing.

On the bank the stream Foyle set out his gear and went through it all methodically. He pushed his battered old green trilby that Sam so loved back on his forehead, and smiled when Connie knelt beside him.

"What fly are you going to use today, Dad," she asked earnestly.

"Look at the water and tell me what you would use," he said with a smile.

Connie studied the water and thought a moment before replying "Mayfly nymph".

Foyle smiled more widely. "Good idea."

She smiled back, feeling pleased.

As they set to attaching it, Foyle asked quietly, "You doing alright, treasure? Not too bothered about this business in Oxford?"

She sat back on her heels. "I'm fine, Dad. Just wishing I could do more."

"I'm sure you've done just enough. The police will sort it out."

"Yes, but don't you think it's odd, Dad?"

Foyle took a deep breath, thinking before he answered. "I do. But I also think there is likely a very clear explanation…which I'm sure the police will find."

He was reminded of his thoughts this morning, however, and asked, "Did you know much about him?"

"No, not really. He was nice enough. Rather reticent, I suppose. I don't know if had anyone in his life, you see."

Foyle hummed softly, listening.

"He didn't, however", Connie continued, "strike me as the sort of man who would inconvenience others. Which is rather what shooting oneself in one's office _would_ do."

"Indeed", Foyle agreed. "Could it be a problem within the college? An argument with a colleague?"

"Could be…"

Andrew's voice broke in on their conversation, calling them from where he stood with a teapot. "Tea, you two?"

Foyle clucked his tongue in mild impatience. "Well that's the fish scared off then. Will he never learn?"

Connie burst into giggles and waved to Andrew. "Apparently not…"

* * *

Morse sat at his desk, right hand worrying the hair at the back of his head. He was staring in front of him, but his colleagues would have only had to look at him to know he was _thinking_. DI Thursday left him to it for a bit, knowing that Morse wouldn't be much use until he could see all the puzzle pieces.

Morse didn't realise he was so predictable, much as he didn't realise that Miss Foyle was equally a puzzle to him. She had been on his mind quite a bit, but he hadn't perceived that it was an interest beyond the current case.

Photographs of the professor's rooms were strewn in front of Morse on the desk. While the office in the photographs looked untidy, or as if someone had been looking for something, it didn't _seem_ staged. He and Thursday had been through the room again, and Morse had specifically gone through the professor's desk and bookshelves. He had found mostly school related things, but a certain letter, which Morse now had in front of him, was what was on his mind.

It was in German, written with a looping handwriting that reminded Morse of an old pen-friend he'd had when he was twelve. It was from a man called Herbert Schmidt and it seemed they two men had more than a casual writing relationship. The topics ranged widely, but the tone was more intimate, as if they had been friends for a long time. More interestingly, however, was that it was posted from Bicester, just north of Oxford.

Morse stood suddenly, and went to find his coat. Would the professor have kept more letters from this Schmidt if they were good friends? The professor lived in college, so perhaps he had kept them in a safe place.

It didn't take long for Morse to be standing once again in the late Professor von Buren's college rooms. Another colleague had gone through these rooms, but Morse wanted to be sure and look for himself. He began at one end near the door and did not stop until he had been right through the small bedroom and lounge. He upended all sorts, opened drawers and felt along their backs, felt down the back of the sofa, until at last, breathing heavily from his efforts, he spied a photo frame over the small mantel.

Inside the rather thick frame was an old photograph, slightly faded and crumpled on one side; it was of what Morse assumed had been the Professor's parents and a sibling, as it contained a man, woman, and two young boys. He tried to see if he could recognise the Professor's young face, but found it difficult to make out any features of the subjects due to the photograph being so faded.

He opened up the back of the frame carefully with a pen knife. As he had hoped, he found a small bundle of letters folded into a larger envelope, and a set of small black and white photographs. He narrowed his eyes and then sighed quietly to himself.

 _TBC..._


	5. Chapter 5

**Part 5**

* * *

Connie and the family were sitting and finishing the last of the tea and toast when the bell rang at the door. Andrew twitched the corner of his paper in annoyance before he sighed in resignation, and stood to go and see who was there.

"Who on earth could that be?" he muttered as he carefully folded his paper.

Connie grinned at his retreating back. _Poor brother… he's just like Daddy… can't bear to be disturbed when reading the paper…_

Foyle was in the kitchen, in fact, fetching another pot of tea. It was amusing to think that the two men had become more alike as they grew older. Connie could remember a time when a younger Andrew had disliked being compared to his father, but she thought perhaps now he wouldn't mind so much.

Sam was in midstream of chatter with Cassandra when Andrew put his head around the door and said loudly, "Connie. It's Detective Constable Morse to see you."

The room went silent and all eyes turned to Connie. She went pink and touched her hair. Feeling a bit unsure all of a sudden, she went out into the hall where Andrew gave her a arm a small squeeze.

Connie noticed he didn't go back into the breakfast room, but lingered in the hall, if not a little protectively.

The day behind Morse was blue and fresh and she thought he looked slightly dashing in a disheveled way as he stood with his hands behind his back.

"Good morning, Constable Morse." She smiled to see him look up so abruptly and smooth his tie.

"Miss Foyle." He smiled in return and Connie felt her stomach flip. "I am sorry to disturb you."

"Not at all." Connie felt slightly awkward standing out on the doorstep. She hesitated to ask him in though, feeling Andrew's presence behind her in the hall as well as the now utterly still breakfast room.

The silence was broken as Foyle returned with the teapot and was immediately shushed when he said "who would like more tea?" Sam quickly let him in on what was happening in hushed undertones. Foyle then poked his head out into the hall.

Connie had gone quite red by this point, and went a shade redder when Foyle began to come towards them. "Um, Detective Constable Morse, my father, former Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle."

The two men shook hands and smiled politely at one another.

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you all, but I had a few more questions for Miss Foyle," Morse said.

"Yes, um, why don't we walk in the garden…such a pretty morning," Connie said quickly, giving her father a pointed look.

"Do come in for a cup of tea after if time allows," Foyle said pleasantly.

Connie groaned inwardly, and very nearly pushed Morse out into the path as she hastened from the door.

"Sorry about that."

Morse gave her a quick smile. "No need to be.

They walked along the path and Connie led them to the right where an organised garden flowered beautifully in spring, but was now slightly more subdued. The day felt unseasonably warm, though perhaps it was the presence of the man beside her that made her feel flushed.

"How did you find me?" she asked curiously.

"Not too many author's called Foyle living near Banbury," Morse said with a smile.

"True." Connie blushed again.

"I found some things in Professor von Buren's college rooms yesterday, and I wondered if you may be able to help me."

"Of course!" Connie said eagerly.

Morse reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a black and white photograph. "Do you recognise this man at all?"

Connie took the photo and looked carefully. Taking a breath, she did what her father had always taught her to do. Describe first, _then_ evaluate or interpret.

 _Well, a line around the edge of the photograph_ — it had been framed and exposure to sunlight had caused the middle part of the photo to fade — _so on display, maybe some sort of importance to it_...

Connie continued her thought process. Small, but not well worn, protected by the frame from the beginning then… Now to the subject… A young, light haired man stared back, cheeks ruddy with youth and vigour and eyes twinkling with slight mischief. Clothes slightly old fashioned, so perhaps from the war or just after. The war… the setting: inside, on a chair. Could it be in Germany? From the Professor's youth?

She felt Morse watching her, and Connie looked up. "I don't recognise him, no. But was it in a frame in his rooms? I've never seen it in his office."

Morse raised an eyebrow, trying to keep his face impassive and not show he was impressed. "It was in the back of a family portrait along with letters and some other snaps of the same man."

Connie nodded slowly. "Hmm, so hidden, essentially."

Morse raised his other eyebrow and then smiled. "Yes. Essentially."

She handed back the photograph and Morse returned it to his inside jacket pocket.

"Does he have something to do with Professor von Buren's murder?"

"I don't know yet." Morse looked out over the garden, thinking.

She noticed he did not correct her and insist on suicide. A glimmer of triumph shimmered in her smile. She covertly watched him from the corner of her eye and noticed the way his eyes darted while he thought, seeing and yet not seeing what lay before him. A small breeze tugged at the unruly sandy locks of his hair, and Connie felt her stomach contract.

After a few minutes silence, Connie said quietly, "How about that cup of tea?"

He turned his head and smiled softly. "Yes, alright."

Connie was instantly grateful that he didn't check his watch or make an excuse so he could leave, though she guessed he probably did have a lot to do; she was also suddenly grateful to her father for mentioning it, as it meant a bit longer in this young man's company. It seemed incredible to her that he would drive all the way to Banbury to ask her about one photograph on a weekend.

"I'm glad you came," she said, and quickly added, "I mean, I'm glad if I could help a bit."

"Yes, well, it is helpful. He was well liked by both students and staff, so it seems, but no one really knew much about him. Rather baffling, really."

"Indeed. I'm amazed that his colleagues didn't know him that well. He always seemed so amiable."

Morse paused in his stride and asked carefully, " Did he ever show an interest in any of your classmates? Or other females?"

Connie found the question odd, and racked her brains to think if there had ever been moments of special interest. He had, in their few tutorials, never shown particular interest in _any_ of them actually… She rather had the feeling that he was just doing his duty and getting through another tutorial, much as they were. It was just another lesson to go to, really.

She expressed this to Morse, who merely nodded and walked on.

"Why do you ask?

Morse shrugged. "Just making enquires."

They had arrived at the front door again, and Connie unconsciously smoothed her hair before leading him inside. Cassandra came out of the lounge and smiled at them both.

"We've adjourned to this room instead. Much nicer." She held out her hand to Morse to introduce herself, and they shook hands. "Nice to meet you, Detective Constable Morse. Do please come in."

They followed Cassandra into the lounge where they were met by the rest of the Foyles. Connie went a shade of pink again. Cassandra steered Morse into a chair near the fireplace and began pouring him a cup of tea. Connie sat beside Andrew on the sofa, and keenly felt the distance between her and Morse suddenly, though it was but half the length of the room.

Cassandra, the perfect hostess as always, introduced everyone to Morse and then began to ply him with questions about Oxford and his work as a policeman there. This questioning allowed Connie to look at him without it being obtrusive.

It wasn't long before Sam mentioned the current case with Professor von Buren.

"I can't say much at this point," Morse began, before smiling, "but I'm sure you know how that goes."

Sam smiled, clearly enchanted with the young man as well. "Of course. But it is a murder enquiry now, isn't it?"

Morse swallowed before saying, "Why do you say that?"

"Well you've come down here to ask Connie something, so presumably it's more pressing than investigating a suicide…?"

Morse gave a small smile. "Clearly a police family."

Sam beamed.

Foyle quirked his mouth in an attempt to suppress a smile.

"I really must be going," Morse said at last. "Thank you for the tea."

Connie stood, "Um, I'll show you out, Constable."

She ignored Andrew's smirk as she walked past.

At the door, Connie smiled softly at Morse. "I'm sorry I couldn't say more about the photograph. But, I do hope this visit was helpful somehow."

"It was." Morse smiled back at her.

"Do let me know if I can be of any more assistance. I'm back at college on Monday. You can find me there."

"I will let you know, thank you."

She didn't want this to be the last time to see him, so as a last minute impulse she added , "You will, however, find me at _Madama Butterfly_ on Tuesday evening."

He smiled more broadly at her this time. "I will keep it in mind, Miss Foyle."

He shook her hand. Did she imagine he held it slightly longer than necessary?

"Goodbye…"

 _TBC..._


End file.
